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Robin stared at herself in the bathroom mirror, her fingers gripping the edge of the heavy marble counter into which the sink was set. The soft lighting around the gold-filigree-edged glass was flattering; even she could see she looked good, her cheeks flushed from expensive cocktails and good food, the sparkle of her dress drawing the eye to her cleavage, the soft tendrils of hair that had escaped her chignon curling around her face.
It’s time, she told herself. Long past time.
It was her thirty-second birthday, and at her own behest, it was almost a repeat of her thirtieth. She had booked a little table at this boutique hotel, more intimate than the Ritz. She had also, marvelling at the casual tone of her own voice on the phone as she made the reservations and read out her credit card number, booked a room for the night. This last, she had not told her companion for the evening.
It had been some weeks now since she and Murphy had split. And yet Robin, through a combination of overwork, the high value she placed upon her friendship with her business partner and a vague ongoing feeling of romantic ineptitude, had done nothing about Strike’s declaration. Strike had treated her exactly the same way he always had, with friendship and warmth but a certain reserve, and Robin had realised, lying alone at night staring at her bedroom ceiling, that he would not change. He had said his piece, and if she did nothing, nothing would ever happen between them. So she had booked this hotel and invited him for cocktails, dressed up and flirted, and a bemused Strike had cautiously followed her lead, slowly relaxing into the occasion as the cocktails flowed. They had had a wonderful evening, and Robin had no doubt that Strike would walk her to a cab and see her safely on her way home if that was what he thought she wanted.
It wasn’t what she wanted.
Was she really going to do this? Seduce Strike, invite him upstairs to the room she had booked and already checked into some hours earlier? It was sumptuous and large, with a huge bed that dominated the space. Robin had taken a few minutes to admire the wood paneling, the soft covers, the mountains of cushions, the claw-foot bath and walk-in shower, before setting the room up ready for her planned evening. Opening a pack of condoms to place one in each bedside drawer within easy reach, she had almost lost her nerve. Holding the little packet, staring down at it, knowing that the intention was to open it and… Was she ready to see Strike naked? To be naked in front of him? There would be no going back from that.
Nerves fluttered in her stomach as all these thoughts flitted through her head. Yes, she was nervous, but in a good way. There was also a sense of exhilaration, of power. She’d seen how Strike’s eyes had widened as he took in the way she had dressed tonight. She’d been aware of the looks being cast her way.
It was time. Robin took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and gave herself a cheeky wink in the mirror for a morale boost. You can do this.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Strike idly swirled the ice in the dregs of his drink as he waited for Robin to return from the ladies’, and wondered if this evening was going where he hoped it was going. He had in part given up on having his feelings returned in recent weeks.
Well, this wasn’t entirely true. He knew Robin had deeper, fonder feelings for him than mere friendship, or at least he was as sure as he could be given that she had never actually said as such out loud. But after she and Murphy had split up - soon enough after his declaration for him to harbour a guilty hope that the split had occurred because of him - there had been no change in her demeanour. Lately he had begun to wonder if she had chosen friendship and their working relationship over anything more, and had even found himself contemplating whether that wasn’t in fact the wiser move: the non-move.
And yet here they were, two years on from her thirtieth birthday, on an evening that could have been a repeat of that night, and yet with an extra something. This time two years ago they had been friends and no more, and when he had momentarily forgotten his own firm boundaries and moved to kiss her, she had recoiled. He was telling himself firmly now that he would not make that mistake again, and yet something in her manner seemed to be different tonight. Strike knew when he was being flirted with, albeit subtly, and she was breathtaking.
He knew from the way other men’s heads turned that she was on her way back to their little table. His heart beating faster, Strike wondered if this was the moment things would finally change between them, or if it was in fact the moment he would once again see her into a cab and go home alone.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Robin almost lost her nerve as she approached the table and Strike stood to greet her, his drink, almost finished, sitting next to her empty glass. He was huge and sexy in his navy suit, his shirt open the the throat and gold cufflinks glinting at his wrists. It seemed impossible that he could truly want her, when he could have any woman in this bar. Women liked Strike, Robin knew.
Then she caught his eye and he grinned, and a wave of fondness washed over her that was so powerful, she could easily have taken the last, extra step into his arms. She was hugely over-thinking this; he was her best friend, and by his own admission had feelings for her. Her fears that she would be consigned to a notch on the bedpost in the morning had been rendered irrelevant by his own words of a few weeks ago.
“Ready to go?” he asked her, and the moment had come.
“Let’s go to the bar,” Robin replied, and she could see his surprise, but he nodded at once and they made their way, weaving between tables, through to the ornate bar.
“What are you drinking?” Strike asked Robin as the barman moved immediately to serve them. She hesitated.
“What are you having?”
“An Old Fashioned, I think. It’s a good end-of-the-evening drink.” He saw her questioning glance. “Bourbon, orange, bitters, basically.”
“I’ll have one of those, too,” Robin said, and perched on a bar stool while Strike ordered the drinks and asked for their bill.
The barman began to prepare their order, and Strike slid onto the stool next to Robin’s.
“So is the plan to linger over a nightcap until it’s actually your birthday?” he asked, glancing at his watch. Robin had chosen the night before her birthday for this evening because tomorrow was Sunday, and if the evening went as she hoped, it would be nice not to have to get to the office the morning after.
“That’s a long time to linger over one drink,” Robin replied, smiling. “It must only be about nine o’clock.”
“It’s nearly ten,” Strike replied, and Robin’s eyebrows raised.
“Time flies when you’re having fun,” she said. “Thank you,” she added in an aside to the barman as he set a coaster by her elbow and stood her drink on it.
“Thanks,” said Strike as his too was placed down. He picked it up at once and tilted it towards Robin. “Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she replied, taking her glass and clinking it against his.
“Happy birthday,” Strike said.
“Thank you,” Robin replied, feeling her cheeks glow at the fond way he was looking at her, and they both took a sip of the amber liquid. The drink was delicious, smooth but with a fierceness that Robin liked, warming down her throat and in her stomach. “Mmm.”
“It’s a good nightcap,” Strike said, smiling at her enjoyment. The barman discreetly set a small leather booklet next to his elbow, and he pulled his wallet from his pocket and laid his credit card on top of it. The bill was removed just as discreetly.
“I’ve had a lovely evening, Strike,” Robin said as the barman processed the payment. “Thank you.”
“You arranged it,” he said, smiling.
“And you just paid,” Robin said, “so thank you.”
He shrugged. “Can’t have the birthday girl paying,” he replied, as the book, now containing his card and receipt, reappeared at his elbow.
Robin smiled her thanks at the barman and waited until he moved away, aware of Strike’s eyes on her. Their stools were so close, her knees were practically touching his. Her elbow resting on the bar, she watched him for a moment as he turned his attention to his drink. He hadn’t worn a tie tonight, his crisp white shirt open at the throat. His hair and beard were neater than usual. His hand rested over the top of his whiskey glass, ice clinking in the amber liquid. He was huge and gorgeous and hers for the taking.
“Strike,” Robin murmured, and he looked up at her. Robin leaned forward and kissed him.
It was a chaste kiss, in deference to their rather public location, a mere press of her lips to his. She heard his intake of breath, felt the soft pressure of her mouth returned, and then she was slowly drawing back.
“Well,” Robin said, smiling, holding his gaze even as she knew she was blushing hard at her own boldness. “I have in fact paid for something else.”
“What’s that?” Strike asked, his dark eyes watching her, a smile on the lips she had just kissed. She wondered if his heart was beating as fast as hers.
“I booked a room upstairs.”
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A jolt to the chest, a fierce surge of desire that had been sparked by her lips on his; but he must not make assumptions, despite Robin’s pink cheeks and sudden nervousness betrayed by the flutter of her breathing and the tremble in the fingers that reached again for her whiskey.
“Robin,” Strike said slowly, feeling his way gently into a conversation that, he knew, there would be no coming back from. “What is this?”
She met his gaze, bold, almost defiant, then her eyes flicked away from his and back again. “It’s…an invitation.”
And yet still he hesitated. Was this a spur-of-the-moment decision, born of too much alcohol? He could not bear to be something she regretted; better nothing at all than that.
She saw his doubts, understood them. “I booked it a few days ago,” she said quietly, and suddenly those doubts were gone, drowned in a rush of hope washing over him like a tidal wave.
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His eyes had actually darkened as his pupils dilated; Robin could feel the blush that had heated her cheeks spreading down across her chest. Finally she had had the courage to make her meaning clear. She picked up her drink. “Shall we take these upstairs?”
Strike nodded, not speaking, and followed her across the bar and out into the grand lobby with its sweeping staircase. They ascended in silence, but there was no awkwardness. A soft smile played around Robin’s lips as they walked side by side, and her hand between them found Strike’s, tangling her fingers idly with his, feeling him squeeze her hand gently, full of promise.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
One didn’t get many chances in life to do things for the first time, Strike mused as Robin swiped the key card she had produced from her bag and let them into the hotel room. And one certainly didn’t get many chances to know in advance that this was going to be a momentous, life-defining moment. But here was one such occasion, presented to him by his business partner and best friend, the woman he was in love with, who was about to change his life forever, as she had been doing since the moment she had walked into his life almost seven years ago.
She moved confidently into the room as Strike closed the door behind them, and then turned back to him. She took his drink and placed it on a sideboard next to hers, and stepped towards him, then hesitated.
“C’mere,” he said gruffly, reaching for her hand and tugging gently. She moved willingly into his arms and grinned up at him.
“What was your plan?” he asked her, and her smile grew broader, with a hint of cheekiness.
“To seduce you,” she said. “But I’ve never seduced anyone before, so—”
Strike chuckled. “You’re doing a pretty good job of it,” he said, and kissed her.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Robin had wondered many times over the years, despite concerted efforts to school her errant thoughts, what kissing Cormoran Strike might be like. In fact, she had wondered what he might be like in any kind of romantic situation. She’d never seen him flirt with anyone, only ever seen him in formal situations with established girlfriends.
His utter focus on her was mesmerising. The way his dark gaze held hers until he was too close and her eyelids fluttered closed. The way he touched his mouth to hers, gentle yet confident, kissing her and encouraging her to open up to him so that he could explore her with his tongue. The way his arms slid around her and pulled her body against his. The smell of him, of aftershave and whiskey and musk. The softness of his lapels under her hands - when had she grabbed at those? - contrasting with the firmness of his broad chest beneath.
He kissed her thoroughly until Robin drew back to gasp in air, and his eyes were hooded as he gazed down at her.
“Are you quite sure about this, Robin?” he asked, voice a little hoarse. “Because if you want to stop, at any time—”
“I don’t,” Robin replied, arousal powerful in her body, pushing her on, pressing her close to him as her arms slid up and around his neck. “I don’t want to stop. I’m quite sure.”
Strike nodded, and kissed her again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So, this was really happening, Strike thought, his brain going hazy with lust and pleasure as Robin’s tongue answered his and swept into his mouth. He could feel the curves of her against him; her hips under his hands, encased in the rough-textured shiny material of her dress, her breasts pressed to his chest. They were both wearing entirely too many clothes which were suddenly feeling constrictive and over-hot; even as the thought occurred to him, Robin drew back again with another gasp and pushed at the shoulders of his jacket.
He shrugged the offending garment off and tossed it aside. Robin’s fingers were immediately on his shirt buttons, fumbling them undone, and he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to help her, to kiss her again or to remove her dress, settling instead for a messy combination of all three, his mouth searching for hers again, one hand at his own buttons and the other sliding around her back to feel for a zip.
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His urgency was gratifying, and flamed her own desire further; Robin’s fingers stilled as another fierce kiss overwhelmed her senses. It was Strike who pulled back this time with a muttered oath as his fingers tugged at the top of the zip at her back.
“Fuck, Robin,” he muttered. “How do I—?”
“There’s a hook and eye—” she gasped as she felt the zip begin to slide. She tugged at his buttons again. They were maddeningly small, and determined to catch on every buttonhole and impede her progress.
With a strangled sound of impatience, Strike abandoned his quest to free Robin of her dress and helped her with his shirt buttons instead, moving to strip the shirt off over his head and then mercifully remembering his cufflinks before tangling himself in expensive cotton.
“Fuck,” he said again, beginning to try to undo them with his large fingers and making a mess of the procedure. Robin giggled and helped him, bent over with her nape and the curve of her back exposed, a sweep of creamy skin dusted with pale red freckles.
“Formal wear is not designed to be removed quickly.” Robin grinned as she worked to slide the metal bars through the holes, and then shivered as she felt Strike’s lips on the back of her neck as he bent to press kisses across to the juncture of her neck and shoulder.
“No,” he breathed against her skin, and Robin’s fingers fumbled, losing all coordination as a wash of desire swept over her.
“Mm.” She murmured her appreciation, resting her forehead against his chest, her hands stilling. His answering rumble was so deep, she almost felt rather than heard it.
Eventually she managed to remove the cufflinks. Robin hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do with them, and Strike took them from her and tossed them vaguely in the direction of his jacket. She heard one bounce on the deep carpet and her eyes followed it. “We’ll never find—”
“That,” said Strike, “is a problem for tomorrow.” And he kissed her again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Everything seemed to be trying to get in his way, and his fingers felt uncoordinated and over-large. Finally his shirt buttons were undone, but he was still trying to unhook the top of Robin’s dress at the back when she slid her hands across his chest and lust swamped him again. Could it really be true that he was here with Robin in a hotel room and they were about to—?
“Fuck,” Strike swore again, vaguely wondering how many times was too many times to swear in the bedroom. “I haven’t got… Do we need condoms?”
“All taken care of,” Robin said as she removed his shirt and tossed it aside, and finally the damned hook and eye parted and he could pull the edges of her dress apart and slide his hands inside, across the soft, smooth skin of her back.
“Of course it is,” he said, grinning. “You always have all the details taken care of.”
“It’s who I am,” Robin said sweetly, smiling up at him, so beautiful with her hair a mess, half falling out of its twist and her lips swollen pink from his stubble.
“And I love you for it,” he said, the feeling swelling up from his chest and spilling out of his mouth before he could stop it; but why stop it? It was the truth, after all. A momentary holding of breath lest he had said too much and ruined the moment, but her smile grew misty as she said at once:
“I love you, too.”
So he kissed her again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Robin wondered, as she stood in the hotel room, tall in her heels with her dress coming away from her shoulders, Strike’s large hands roaming across her back and drawing her body closer still, if every encounter between them would have such a focus on the kissing. Her experience might have certain limits, but what she had learned was that men seemed to see kissing as merely a prelude to sex, which could subsequently be abandoned once things had progressed further. Strike seemed to see it as a pleasurable activity in and of itself, to be returned to repeatedly even as more and more clothes were removed.
No doubt she would find out. This was no one-off encounter. This was the start of the rest of her life, she knew. And there would be time for savouring the moment later, plenty of time. For now, her desire was fierce and had been too long held in check. She drew back from the kiss again to wriggle out of her dress and let it fall to the floor. Strike took a half step away to gaze at her as she stood wearing nothing but the navy lace bra and knickers she had bought for this very purpose, and the tall heels.
“Christ, you’re gorgeous,” he said, and the reverence in his tone dispelled any doubts she might have had that she might not compare to the more glamorous of his previous girlfriends, to Charlotte or Ciara or Lorelei.
“So are you,” she replied, enjoying the sight and feel of his copious body hair that tapered down into his trousers. Her eyes dropped lower and settled on the bulge at his groin and she felt a sudden lurch of anticipation combined with lust, and reached for his belt.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He’d known she’d be exquisite; he’d never fancied small women, and although he didn’t mind a skinny figure, curves had always been his preference. The swell of Robin’s breasts above the lace edge of her bra, the soft round of her stomach, the curve of her hips, all spoke to the primal part of him that unashamedly liked a more voluptuous shape.
Her hands were at his belt now, and things were progressing faster than he’d assumed they might, but he wasn’t going to be the one to slow things down. They had waited too long for this moment; nobody could accuse him of rushing into this. He slid his hands around her back again and undid her bra, and then her breasts were free as she cast the garment aside impatiently and he cupped one in his hand, the other pulling her close to kiss her again while he caressed her.
Her hands stilled and gripped at his waistband and she trembled in his arms, making soft sounds of pleasure into his mouth as he stroked her skin and then his fingers lightly toyed with her nipple. With a groan she pulled her mouth free of his again.
“Bed— want to lie down—” she muttered, and Strike grunted his agreement, satisfied to see her look a little wobbly as they moved to the huge bed and Robin kicked off her shoes. She crawled on to the bedspread and he followed, pressing her gently down onto the soft expanse and turning his full attention to her gorgeous breasts.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pleasure that stormed through her was intense. Robin vaguely remembered Midge telling her over cocktails one night that it was possible to give a woman an orgasm through this alone if you knew what you were doing. She hadn’t really believed it at the time, but now it suddenly felt highly possible.
“Strike,” she finally gasped, pushing at his shoulders, the stimulation becoming too much. “I want—”
“What?” His voice was hoarse, his eyes black, his breath stuttering in his chest. He looked every bit as wrecked as she felt. “What do you want, Robin?”
“I want you,” she told him unequivocally, knowing she looked debauched too and not caring. “We can do slow next time. I want you now.”
A grin pulled at his mouth, but there was no teasing in it, only an acknowledgment of shared feelings. “Yes, ma’am.” And he rolled away to strip off his undone trousers.
It hadn’t occurred to Robin to wonder how Strike dealt with his prosthetic leg in romantic situations; as it turned out, it was as matter-of-fact as the removal of clothing. He unstrapped the item and set it aside with his trousers and rolled back to face her, but Robin laid a hand on his chest, stopping him. “Boxers, too.”
Strike chuckled and removed these too, but he gave a grunt of protest as Robin began to take off her knickers.
“Can I do that?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She blushed, and if he hadn’t been sure before that he loved her, he’d have known it in this moment.
“Okay,” she said, her hands stilling, and he replaced them with his own. Strike took his time over the task, drawing the scrap of lace slowly down her legs, following with his mouth and then kissing his way back up to her thigh, gently encouraging her to open to him as he drew closer. For the first time, he felt resistance in the tension that crept into her body, and he stopped.
“No?”
She was blushing again, panting a little. “You don’t have to.”
“I know. I’d like to, but only if you want me to.”
She hesitated, and for a moment Strike thought surely. Surely they can’t both have been selfish pricks?
“Okay,” she said softly, and her thighs fell open to his hungry eyes and hands and mouth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Were there really men who did this because they liked it, and not just because they were trying to impress you? But Robin didn’t think Strike would lie to her, not in this. She was just overthinking, because overthinking was what she did, and there were many things around sex that still made her anxious, and—
Suddenly Robin wasn’t thinking at all, as Strike’s tongue gently touched her core and all rational thought vanished. The desire that had clenched within her, building slowly from the moment she’d seen him in his suit, smartly dressed for her, for her birthday; as he’d laughed and told jokes and funny stories from his younger days; as alcohol had waned in her veins and she’d flirted and seen him tentatively respond; now that desire was suddenly a real and very physical demand in her body, stoked into flames by his tongue and his lips, by soft caresses and purposeful pressure, until she was gasping and moaning beneath him, her fingers buried in his dark curly hair.
“Stop,” she finally gasped, as the tension became too much, and he drew back and gazed up at her.
“Stop?”
“It’s too— I want you,” she said, shaking with need, and Strike grunted and pulled himself up alongside her, kissing his way up her body.
“Me, too,” he grunted, and then groaned as she reached for him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The sight of her, aroused to fever pitch by him, full of desire for him, was almost more than Strike could bear. His whole body ached for her, heavy and wanting, and his cock throbbed as she caressed and stroked it. He couldn’t allow her to do that for too long, not if he wanted this to last - and he did.
“Condom?”
“Bedside drawer.”
Strike scrabbled for the packet; it was right at the front of the drawer, for which he was grateful. Within half a minute he had opened it and tossed the wrapper aside, slid the condom into place and turned back to her, and Robin pulled him into her arms.
“You’re sure about this?” he murmured, nuzzling into her neck and feeling her shiver against him.
“Very,” she replied, smiling against his temple.
“Where do you want me?”
This seemed to give her pause. She contemplated while he continued to softly kiss her neck, enjoying the shudders that ran through her body as he did so, then she said tentatively:
“Can I…go on top?”
“You can go anywhere you want,” he said at once, as fierce delight surged through him. Missionary was all very well, and he wasn’t going to complain however she wanted him, but being ridden by Robin might have been a fantasy that had cropped up in his dreams once or twice - dreams that had filled him with guilt and caused him to redouble his efforts to be nothing but professional in the office whilst not quite being able to meet her eye for a day or two. The idea that she, too, might have thought about it sent another surge of lust singing through his veins.
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Strike rolled onto his back and Robin, blushing, swung her leg over him. For the briefest of seconds, the absurdity of the situation presented itself. This was Strike, her one-time boss and partner, her best friend, co-owner of their business and the man she knew, these days, probably better than she had ever known anyone. And now she was straddling him in a hotel room, both of them naked, and—
His hands settled on her waist and he gazed up at her so adoringly that she forgot to think that this was anything other than utter perfection, a final step on a journey that it now seemed had always been leading to this point, and she planted her hands on his broad chest and leaned forward.
“I love you,” she said quietly, and kissed him softly.
Strike kissed her back, and then as she drew away, replied, “I love you too,” and there was a crack to his voice.
Misty-eyed again for a moment, Robin smiled down at him, and then she raised her hips and rocked back onto him, sheathing his cock inside her and feeling the delicious stretch, hearing his groan of pleasure answered in her own voice.
Robin paused, sitting atop him, adjusting, her body pure pleasure. She rocked forwards again, Strike’s large hands on her hips encouraging her to find a rhythm, and the sensations rolling through her body built swiftly, inexorably.
Pleasure swelled; abruptly it became something she no longer controlled, but which controlled her. Robin dropped forward, her arms around Strike’s shoulders and her cheek pressed to his, her hips rocking faster while he thrust up beneath her, her breath panting and little whimpers of delight escaping her.
“Christ, Robin—“ Strike groaned, and she knew he, too, was close. This was not going to be a prolonged encounter. She rocked harder, chasing the pleasure, and her orgasm overtook her, making her movements grow jerky and her breath heavy in his ear. With a few fierce thrusts and a grunt, Strike followed her, arching up beneath her, and as Robin finally collapsed across his chest, loose-limbed with satiation, he went slack beneath her, his body relaxing and his hands moving from her hips to wrap around her and hold her close.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Jesus,” Strike managed at last, when coherent thought was once again possible. “That was— Wow.”
Robin’s head rolled on his shoulder and she peered up at him through a mess of sweaty, red-gold hair. “Yeah?”
Strike chuckled, deeply sated. “You didn’t feel it?”
“Oh, I felt it,” Robin said, grinning. “Just checking.”
They lay and held one another for a minute, until Strike knew that the condom must be dealt with. Even as he thought it, Robin eased herself up and off him, and he rolled away for a moment while she flopped down onto the bedspread. When he turned back she was lying on her back, spread out, wild-haired and still panting a little, and she grinned across at him.
“I’d like to do that again.”
Strike laughed and scooped her into his arms. “Well, Robin, I’m almost forty-two, so you’re going to have to let me have a nap first.”
She chuckled as she settled herself against his chest, nuzzling into his chest hair. “I don’t mean immediately.”
“Good,” Strike replied sleepily, wrapping his arms more tightly around her. “But I’m game as soon as I’ve got some energy back.” He hugged her close, his heart swelling. It didn’t seem possible that this evening, which he had been so sure would be a few cocktails and a taxi back to his attic flat alone, had turned into…this. Happiness threatened to swamp him and bring tears to his eyes as Robin snuggled closer into his embrace.
Then she gave a small giggle. “Energy?” she said. “That reminds me,” and she rolled from his arms towards the bedside cabinet, eliciting a moan of protest from Strike. He heard the drawer open for just a second, then quickly close before she crept back into his arms once again.
“Got you covered,” she said, dropping a cylindrical package onto his chest.
“Mm?”
“I brought biscuits. You can dunk them in your Old Fashioned.”
Robin felt the rumble of laughter forming deep in his chest long before she heard its escape. She peered up at his expression and smiled at his unadulterated look of adoration.
“Jesus Christ, Ellacott. You really do think of everything.”